


the cream to my coffee

by novembersmith



Series: the head to my hat [2]
Category: Alice (2009)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:23:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5511866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersmith/pseuds/novembersmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just so you know, I’ve never done this before,” Alice says, chin up and body tense, firm, ready for action. Fight or flight. Hatter, who has been thoroughly distracted trying not to die of the thudding of his heart when she’d tucked her fingers in his waistband and kissed him silly, takes a moment or three to parse this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the cream to my coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freloux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/gifts).



> Pure porn (+ feelings), set in the same universe as 'the cheese to my pizza', but should be able to read as a standalone.
> 
> Many many thanks to my betas, regonym and formerlydf, and freloux, hope you enjoy! Happy first Yuletide! :D

In a weird way, what follows is impossibly easy.

Pizza, obviously, is _amazing_ , though nothing is nearly as good as Alice’s face, laughing at him as he tackles the molten strings of cheese.

Alice and Charlie set up a school of knights for the new realm, and Hatter develops a very disturbing interest in watching Alice teach in her slim, white body armor. No clanking at all, not for her, only easy silent movements. He could watch her teaching class all day.

They go back and forth between worlds, now that her mother knows—the time issue’s still a bit wobbly, but Alice has temporarily quit her Overland job, to focus on what she calls her new calling.

“They need me more right now,” she’d told her mother firmly, who had narrowed her eyes at first, but over the weeks had unbent.

“She seems happier, and steadier,” she’d told Hatter once, during a dinner at the house while Alice was in the bathroom. “How could I complain about that? She was always so unhappy, before.”

“You should be happy, too,” Hatter says, greatly daring. “You know, if you’re looking, I know this great knight…”

He gets swatted, because the mother is very like the daughter.

Hatter’s working mostly with the Overlanders who need orienting to Wonderland proper, outside of the Casino. It’s mostly the ones too far outside of their own time, who don’t want to return to their world, now that it’s decades beyond anything they know, with all their loved ones gone or dead. He works with them, and the Library’s refugees. He and Dodo butt heads, often, but it’s satisfying in a way he’s never known.

But it’s his life in Overland that floors him, as sporadic as it is.

Over the course of the last few weeks, they have been out on three normal, non-Wonderland dates. The much-anticipated pizza (delicious), and a movie (marvelous, if confusing), and a coffee (better than tea, he decides, and is rewarded with a belly laugh and a kiss).

That last, the coffee, is still strong and thick and sweet between them, even hours later. He can still taste it on her tongue as she straddles him on the couch in the apartment Jack had procured him, all those weeks ago.

He _loves_ coffee, and is about to tell her so, reverently, when Alice suddenly looks him dead in the eye and he freezes.

“Just so you know, I’ve never done this before,” Alice says, chin up and body tense, firm, ready for action. Fight or flight. Hatter, who has been thoroughly distracted trying not to die of the thudding of his heart when she’d tucked her fingers in his waistband and kissed him silly, takes a moment or three to parse this.

“…ki...ssed?” he guesses, cowardly, because he is but himself, after all. His bravery comes and goes in moments of dire peril, but now with her nervous, determined eyes on him he quails all over, a tea-shop madman in ill-begotten finery. He _knows_ she’s kissed, before. She’s kissed him before. Jack too, obviously. Others as well, probably. He knows that but he hides behind this stance nonetheless, and feels a swell of backdated pity for poor Charlie. Cowardice is easy; bravery is harder. “Well, could have fooled me, top marks, you’re a natural. Black belt kisser, you are.”

“Hatter,” she says, unimpressed, but smiles into his mouth when he kisses her again, helplessly. Unimpressed is his favorite look on her, besides delighted, and staunch, and laughing.

He likes most of her looks, come to think of it.

“Yes?” he says, and nibbles at her lower lip, kisses open-mouthed the irresistible jut of her jaw.

“I’ve never had _sex_ before,” she says bluntly, because she is nothing if not a beautiful blunt instrument, precise and no-nonsense, and she blinks at him crossly when he squeaks.

Sex with Alice is a thing he has only barely dared to dream of. Kissing alone is enough to make him giddy, drunk on it, and saints and saxophones, he loves the little sounds she makes when she melts against him, the throaty purrs she makes without seeming to realize it whenever she rubs her face against the stubble of his cheek. But sex—she might kill him. And she’s never—she’s never _had_ it before—

“I’ve never felt—comfortable, enough, I guess. Orgasming is a vulnerable moment, and I haven’t felt safe enough with anyone but—Hatter. Hatter?”

Alice. Alice orgasming. On her own fingers? In a shower, maybe? Wet, hair on her neck, water down her throat. Alice. Hatter needs a moment.

“Fnngh?” he fizzes, and hides his face her neck a moment, gratified when she allows it with a sigh, her hand sneaking around to curl in the hair at the back of his neck.

“I love you,” she says crossly, sweetly, and Hatter sighs out in terror and agony and delight.

“Words,” he mumbles into her skin. “Words don’t—work. Words, words, words. Alice, I love you.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice and it’s like a knife to his heart, except the exact opposite, somehow. It hurts in the best way, in a way he’d never imagined possible.

“You don’t have to do anything ever with me,” he manages, and peels himself away from the addictive beat of her pulse to look into the equally addictive blue of her eyes. “I want you to know that. Whatever you want, with me, is what I want.”

“Hatter,” Alice says, eyes narrowing, and it’s only because of all the times they’ve held hands, stepped across gut-clenching death-defying perilous moments together, that he doesn’t instantly panic. “You think I don’t care what you want, too?”

“I want what you want me to want, you wanting is enough to make me want whatever, I’ll put on rabbit ears if that’s what you’re into, but whatever you want I want, I do—and I feel like we’re about to get in a vicious, self-sustaining cycle about wanting, here,” he warns, and is warmed to his boots when she flicks his nose.

“Hatter. No rabbit ears, please—unless you want?” She laughed, and his heart is a rabbit now, fit to burst out of time itself with its beating. “Nevermind! But I do want. To have sex, I mean. With you. But I might not be good at it?”

She looks—nervous. This is Alice, nervous. Not about circumnavigating an alien world, not about toppling a card casino, but about him, about them. Hatter feels like he’s been shot again, right in the bullet-proof vest, breath knocked out of him.

“I just wanted to let you know,” she finishes in a rush, eyes still locked on his, because she’s—his Alice, his champion, his hero, she is the bravest person he’s ever known and even in this, the mushy gooey swamp of emotions he knows she feels she has no footing in, she is doing her best. For him, for her, for them. He loves her, he _loves_ her.

“There are literally no words, in any book or world, to tell you how much it means to me that you want to—anything. With me, of all people.” He hides his mouth against hers for a moment. “I might not be good at it either,” he confesses in a trip of tongue, and closes his eyes.

“Well, you’ve had sex before,” she says, sounding matter of fact and sure, at least, and he opens one eye. “Haven’t you?”

“I have,” he confirms nervously, and part of him wishes he hadn’t—that she could be his first, too, but at least now he knows enough to make this good for her. And maybe… that’s what’s making her nervous, now, as ridiculous as it seems to him. But when he tries to wrap his mind around it being the other way ‘round, him not knowing, her knowing, he’s struck all over again by how brave she is.

“What’s it like?” she asks him, endlessly straight-forward, open in a way he wants to be worthy of so badly it hurts. He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles, open-mouthed, and feels dizzy to see her eyes go darker, focused on first her hand at his mouth, then his mouth, then up to his eyes again.

“It’s not so different from kissing,” he says hoarsely, and then hastens to continue when her mouth quirks into a frown. “I mean, you’ve kissed, we’ve kissed—have you ever kissed someone you didn’t _really_ like?”

“Yes,” she says, tilting her head curiously, waiting.

“It’s—better, with someone you like, yeah?”

“Yes,” she answers confidently, and then, because she is perfect, kisses him. He closes his eyes and holds her close, and it’s hard to believe this is real. Not a tea-drunk dream, Alice is on top of him, comfortable and warm and hot and soft.

“’s the same with sex,” he says hoarsely, and his lips feel swollen, kiss-bruised and oversensitive. “Better with feelings. Better when you both want it, just as much as the other. I’ve had both kinds, and it’s—it’s always better with someone you like. And I like you. I love you.” Words, he thinks frantically. Words are the worst. “And I’ve never—with someone I loved. So it’s sort of my first time, too, really. When you think about it.”

“Except I don’t know what I’m doing,” Alice says cautiously, like it’s a warning. Like she’s not already wrapped around him, like her hips aren’t destroying him with their tiny, thoughtless rolling ocean-wave moves against him.

“Secret is, sex is silly, Alice,” he tells her, nosing at her face until she finds his mouth and kisses him. “It’s—dumb, it’s all ridiculous. There’s no way to do it wrong, if you both want to do it, so long as, uh, no one gets hurt that doesn’t want it. Sometimes hurting is nice, but we can—talk about that later, if you want. It’s just, um. Sex. It’s all—squidgy noises, and smells, and bodily fluids. What matters more than anything you do is that you want it.”

“I do like all your squidgy noises,” Alice says, smiling down at him, her hair a curtain around them.

“Oi,” he says helplessly. “I’ll show you squidgy noises.”

“Thought that was what I was asking you for,” Alice says, and now he realizes she’s rocking her hips _deliberately_ , of course she is.

“Alice,” he says, and his hands find her hair, and for a long moment all he can do is kiss her. Kiss her deeper than before—he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding back, but of course he had been, nervous and adoring. And now this is their first truly filthy kiss, both of them open-mouthed and panting into each other. He tongues her first, hungry and wild with it, licking at her teeth and the roof of her mouth and then he’s being pushed back and she’s returning the favor.

He might die like this, of this, with Alice on top of him taking what she wants. Which she can _have_ , she can have all of it, all of him, already does, even if she doesn’t know yet what she wants, it’s hers anyway, already. He melts into the couch and moans into her as she sucks at his tongue, bites at his mouth.

She pulls back slowly, the wetness of their mouths strung between them for a moment, her eyes huge and dark.

“Oh,” she says, and Hatter whimpers. “I just—I want to be all over you. Is that—what it is?”

“Yes,” Hatter says, even though he isn’t entirely sure what the question is, or how he’s getting enough air in despite how much his chest is heaving. “Alice, fuck.”

“Clothes off,” she decides, and then laughs at him when he clutches at her, whimpering. He gets his shirt off in a rush, tangled arms and undershirt and desperation to see her again.

“I missed your hair like this,” she says, tugging at his head in a way that makes him go completely pliant and panting.

“Thought it was weird, here?” He’s been trying so hard to fit in.

“Mm, no. It’s fashionable. And even if it wasn’t, it’s you, I want you,” she says, dimpling at him, and palms his chest curiously, rubbing the heel of her hand over his nipple until he feels like a dog, kicking out his foot and shuddering beneath her.

“You too?” he begs, and feels shy about it until she goes pink, ducking her head. “If you want, god, please, if you don’t feel comfortable please don’t, I’ll go nude and you can stay clothed, that’s good too—”

“I like seeing your shirt off,” she says thoughtfully, biting her lower lip, and then takes off her top. Her hair is glorious over her shoulders. Her underclothes—bra, here, not a corset—are dark against her pale skin. “You—probably, you’d like to see me, too?”

“Whatever you want me to see,” Hatter says, and then yelps when she flicks at his nipple. She’s observant, clever eye, clever hands, god—how can she not think she’ll be brilliant at this, as brilliant as she is at everything else?

“Tell me,” she commands, smirking at him for a second before faltering. “I mean, please tell me. Please, sorry. I want—I don’t. I want us to be together on this.”

“Alice, there is nothing of you I don’t want,” he says, bare-bone honest. He couldn’t be more naked if he was skinned, for her.

“Okay, but. Be aware, I don’t have—very large breasts, they’re not exactly—Duchess level,” she says, like an apology, and oh god.

“They’re beautiful, you’re beautiful,” he says hoarsely, and she dimples at him and he might die.

“You haven’t seen them yet.”

“They’re yours, I love them, I want to see them but you don’t have to—oh,” Hatter chokes, because she’s unhooked her mysterious bra contraption and there they are, a perfect handful, pale nipples a shade lighter than her lips.

“Acceptable?” she asks, arching an eyebrow, and looking nervous, uncomfortable. It’s all he can do to breathe for a moment. Beautiful, she’s beautiful, she’s so—herself, all of a piece, lean and lovely. She laughs a relieved breath into his mouth when he lunges for her, kissing her with all the words he can’t say. “Just, some men have complained before, about the lack of curves. Because I work out too much, I guess. I’m—I don’t care, obviously. But I’m glad you like them. Like me.”

“I will murder anyone who dares malign your perfect curves, off with their heads,” Hatter says tremblingly, hands on the impossible perfection of her bare waist. Her skin is silken beneath his coarse fingers, warm and alive. Part of him wants to panic, again, about touching her with all the blood on his hands, but it’s hard to think, to worry, when she’s smiling down at him like that. “Alice, oh Alice.”

When she leans down to kiss him their chests brush and she gasps against him, and grinds down, and Hatter makes a thoroughly embarrassing yelping groan.

“That feels—nice,” she says, looking shocked and dark-eyed, and his hand spans her bare back easily. She’s so small, so tiny, sometimes it shocks him. She’s larger than life, larger than a king or queen or realm, it seems impossible she should be able to fit in his hands like this.

“I want to make you come,” he tells her, and feels her tremble, too. For him, because of him. He’s making Alice shiver with want and it’s like being drunk on Power, the tea a dark red that never ran as hot or as deep as this. Hatter wants to make her feel as beautiful as she is, as impossible, as beloved. “Again and again. As much as you’ll let me. Alice, let me?”

“One thing at a time,” she teases, her face flushed pink and happy, confident and comfortable again, and he smirks up at her, feeling powerful himself for a moment.

“One thing after another,” he corrects, and lets his other hand rub at the junction between her hips, hot and damp already, even with layers of that dratted denim between them.

“Hatter!” she gasps, and bucks against his hand, squeaks when he pushes down against her back, pushes her against his fingers. “Oh, fuck. That’s—how are your hands so much better than mine?”

Her hands on herself, he can’t help but think it, see it, wants to see it. One thing after another, mate, he reminds himself, and wonderingly tucks that thought, that hope, aside for a rainy day.

“Can’t tickle yourself,” Hatter croons, and crooks his fingers over her, rubbing insistently. “Let me, oh let me make you laugh.”

“I’m not—not laughing,” Alice laughs, and she’s red all over, down her lovely throat to her glorious chest, and when he dips his head to lap at her nipple she tightens everywhere, every muscle iron beneath velvet, beneath satin. “Oh, God, how—fuck, Hatter, please, Jesus.”

“Anything,” he promises, and nips at her nipple, a daring touch of teeth, and nearly comes in his pants himself when she moans and rocks forward against his hand--he wants to feel, he wants her clothes off, he wants to taste and touch but there will be time for that, maybe, please. He presses up against her, trembling, lets her use his right hand for her own—such a better use for it, he thinks, never use it for _anything else_. She bucks once, twice, almost hard enough to hurt, then collapses against him, shaking.

“Let me again,” he begs against her throat, leg shaking. He presses lightly against her with his knuckles, and her hips twitch upwards so beautifully, like a teased snapdragon. He bets she’s just as rosy, beneath her knickers.

“Hatter,” she says thickly, and nudges at his head for a kiss. “Wait, no—stop, how do I—how do I make you feel good? I want you to feel that good, too.”

Saints and saxophones, nymphs and pages.

“Think that was good? It gets better,” he tells her, and lets his grin go crooked, wicked. He tugs, ever so gently, on the top of her jeans with a little finger, dips inside with a thumb and feels the divine divot of a navel. She stares at him, eyes lake-dark. “Oh, Alice, I haven’t even _begun_.”

“That’s all well and good,” she says, swallowing and lifting her chin. “But you’re doing all the work. By my count, it’s my turn.”

“No, no, no turns. There’s no rules.” She looks mutinous, and he resigns himself to having to beg her to let him keep his head between her legs for a few hours, at least. “Besides, see, you can go as many times as you like! But I’ve a limited number of shots, so to speak. It only makes sense to let me have my fill of you first, because if you touch me now, I’ll come like a flamingo with a finger on the button,” he warns. “And then crash in a lake. Metaphorically.”

“Bang,” she whistles, dimpling at him. She’s freshly-come, all pink and dewy and he can hardly stand it. “Sounds familiar, in more way than one. But you know I hate flying.”

“You know, forget the metaphor, honestly, forget bullets-and-flamingos. Just orgasms, straightforward, no figurative language afoot, just—let me put my mouth on you,” He keeps tugging lightly at the waist of her jeans. “May I, milady?”

“If you must,” she allows, her voice gone throaty and low in a way that curls inside him like smoke, hot, diffusing all through his body. She lifts her hips for him, and after some awkward wrestling with buttons and belts, he manages to slide everything down, kissing each bit of bared leg as he goes—thigh, knee, calf, ankle, he has to take a moment at each to press his open mouth too, and lets his scruff rasp at her after he notices how it makes her gasp, and shiver, and her legs fall open further.

When he’s got the wretched denim things off over her feet and over his shoulder, he looks back up with some trepidation, and yep, yes, he’s having to clutch at his own dick in terror of coming right now, because Alice—naked on a couch, cheeks pink, legs spread, already slick and pink from her first orgasm, is _a lot for a man to handle_.

“Fuck, you look good, oh fuck,” he chokes out, and sees her relax a little, makes a mental note to stop trying to hold his tongue—who needs dignity when Alice doesn’t seem to know how fucking impossibly perfect she is?

She bites her lip, and then slips her own hand between her legs, her eyelids lowering as her fingers spread the wetness about, sliding up and down, her hips arching. Is she—showing off for him? Fuck, fuck.

“Coming?” she asks, dimple appearing, and he gives his dick a last squeeze. Hold on mate, he begs it, and then inches forward on shaking hands and knees.

“Trying not to, actually,” he says, and then doesn’t hear whatever response she makes to that, because he actually can’t stand it any longer. Inelegant, sloppy—he knows he can do better, Carlotta St Delaware, all those years ago, had trained him well to do as she liked, but with Alice he loses all his cunning and skill and just buries his face against her and drinks her in, moaning.

Wet, she’s so wet, and so tart, tangy like the first bite of apples in spring. His hands are clenching on her thighs, and he can’t get enough of it, of her. He tongues through her folds and noses at her clit and moans, and she’s shaking under him. He doesn’t realize she’s saying his name until she’s pulling his hair, pulling him up to look at her. 

Their eyes lock and his mouth is still on her, he can feel her clenching against his lips, and her eyes are shocked, her chest shaking. He wants to get his mouth on her nipples again, but he wouldn’t move from where he is at gunpoint.

“You can use my, my hair, yeah, like that, god, you’re quick,” he mumbles against her, and shivers when she does. “Pull, hard as you like, push me down, I’m—I want it, Alice, I—”

“Fuck,” she says, and rolls her hips up into him, pushing his head down, and he shudders all over.

“Use—use your fingers,” she commands, her voice rich and rasping, and he mumbles an assent against her, and oh, oh inside she’s so hot. “That’s good, god, you’re so good, you’re so—Hatter, so good for me.” 

She holds his head down, his face right there, and pushes her hips up, and he groans and crooks his fingers and gives her his tongue, his mouth, everything he has. She comes off the couch and curls up around him, shaking so hard he can barely keep ahold of her legs; she pulses around his fingers like a star coming out in the first flush of evening; she says his name in a long, drawn out wail, and he comes in his pants against her, he can’t help it, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until his cock pulses in time with her, and then he’s panting against her thigh, shaking with it, eyes wide and leaking.

“Oh,” she says, collapsing slowly back, her hands still in his hair. He goes with her, dazed, still shivering on her thigh. She unclenches her fingers and begins petting him, lightly. “Is it always like that?”

Hatter makes a frog-like sound, and then coughs, swallows. “No,” he says firmly, still on his knees, still pressing his cheek to her thigh, staring up at her as she stares down at him. “No, Alice, it is not.”

“Hm,” she hums thoughtfully, and then pulls him up for a kiss, tastes his slick face with every evidence of pleasure, and he melts against her helplessly, still in his trousers, with a tie limp around his bare neck. 

She’s cross when she realizes he’s come without her, but brightens as he stammers an explanation.

“‘s never happened before, honest, I didn’t even—you saw both my hands, didn’t you!”

“So you just like it that much,” she says, starting to sound smug and pleased, cat with the cream.

“Yes, yeah, that’s what I’m telling you,” he says, snuggling in, relieved.

“Well,” she says, and pushes him back from her with a hand in the middle of his chest, then a gentle foot when he doesn’t go further. “It’s still my turn. Stand and strip. You’re way too clothed.”

He scrambles out of his clothes with shaking hands, half-toppling and awkward, too dazed to feel anything but dopey delight and dawning alarm. It’s actually not an unfamiliar feeling; he’s often felt naked in front of her steely eyes.

“I can’t get hard again so fast,” he warns her, and naturally, of course she does, she takes this as a challenge.

She was lounging on the couch, looking very cat-like and predatory indeed, regarding his slick cock with a curious, cocked head. But at that, she slides off the couch gracefully, and gets on her knees before him, running an inquisitive, thoughtful finger in a circle around the head. He chokes, and she licks her lips, and then leans in and carefully licks a delicate line, the same path her finger had followed.

“Fuck, oh god, I was wrong,” he wheezes, and goes from post-coital to hard as the stone of Wonderland itself in less than a second; he certainly feels like he’s throbbing enough to cut a portal through universes, to other worlds, and he’s as dizzy as though he’s fallen through the rabbithole again. “You’re going to be the death of me, Alice.”

She raises an eyebrow at him from where she’s kneeling in front of him. He’s bracing himself against the arm of the couch, praying to all the deities he’s ever heard of, even the ones that Charlie talks to, that he won’t just topple over at any minute. “Problem?” she asks.

“Nope! None, zero complaints,” he babbles, and, very daringly, puts a wavering hand on her hair, then slides it down to cup the smooth silk of her cheek. It’s just his hand, right now, and she closes her eyes and makes a pleased sound, a hum that’s almost a purr. 

“You know what,” he says, voice thick, and she turns her head and kisses his palm. “I’ll live.”


End file.
